


down to the last line

by sequinedfairy



Series: we'll find a way of forgiving [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:48:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/pseuds/sequinedfairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes he feels like life with Harry is just cruel. Harry needs him so fucking much right now, he’s a complete mess and he wouldn’t be this way with anyone else, and Zayn can’t really do anything about it because he’s seventeen and stupid in love with him and honestly sometimes just really, really glad that he’s the one Harry wants on a shitty night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	down to the last line

**Author's Note:**

> (co-written)  
> sooooooo this universe is basically just a love letter to high school and high school theater. it’s not particularly cohesive because we’re lazy and would rather just post random scenes, but we have some idea of a storyline! (kind of.) they’re seventeen-year-old high school seniors in nyc who have been codependent best friends since kindergarten. harry is directing west side story and zayn is his stage manager.  
> this is 95% self-indulgent h/c. warning for underage drinking, throwing up, and VERY vague d/s undertones.
> 
> title from glorified high by sarah jaffe

Zayn, Harry, and the rest of the West Side Story production team have been locked in a room for three hours, arguing about nepotism and seniors and exactly how Harry is going to deal with a 30-person cast. There are a lot of names scribbled on the chalkboard, crossed out and circled and covered with strange triangles and stars that are only meaningful to someone who knows Zayn’s weird stage manager code.

Finally, Harry stands up and proclaims “We have a cast,” looking vaguely sick but also excited. Eleanor screams and kisses him and calls him the best director ever. Zayn smiles, ruffling his hair, and grabs Harry’s computer to type up a cast list, and -- wow, they have a cast. A huge cast, one that Zayn’s going to have to yell at constantly, but -- a pretty amazing one nonetheless.

The rest of the team wanders out of the room before Zayn is done formatting the list, and Harry follows them, muttering something about meeting Zayn in the hallway. Zayn finishes up and goes to his locker, getting his stuff together. Five minutes later, he’s checked his email and his facebook and his philosophy homework, and Harry still isn’t there, and the janitor had told them to get out of the building. He’s walking down the hallway, calling out for Harry, when he sees the bathroom and realizes what’s probably going on.

He runs the rest of the way, hating himself for being so fucking oblivious. He’s Harry’s best friend -- it’s his job to notice this shit. He walks into the bathroom and can see that the last stall door is closed, and hears some stuttery breaths, and he knows those breaths. He pushes open the stall door, and yeah, it’s the scene he expected -- Harry’s crouched on the floor, leaning over the toilet, looking tiny and miserable and worn out.

Harry glances up at Zayn and immediately looks back down, resting his forehead on the toilet. Zayn touches one of his curls and Harry breathes out, shaky. “Can you lock the door?”

Zayn nods, walking the few steps and bolting the door. When he gets back to Harry he’s about to throw up, and Zayn crouches down next to him, one hand on his waist, the other holding back the loose strands of Harry’s hair. Zayn hasn’t had to do this in two years and he fucking hates it. He presses his forehead against Harry’s neck, tightening his hold on his hip. Finally Harry turns towards him. “Sorry,” he says, barely audible.

“Fuck, Harry,” Zayn says, sitting back on his heels, his hand fisted in Harry’s shirt. “Are you --”

“I’m done,” Harry tells him, laughing a little. “I’m -- fuck, thanks.” He leans back, letting Zayn hold onto him. Zayn grabs his water bottle out of his bag and presses it into Harry’s hand, and Harry washes his mouth out, giving Zayn a weary smile when he’s done.

Harry just fucking puked, and Zayn still want to kiss him desperately. Zayn doesn’t know why this is his life. But he rubs Harry’s arm until his breathing slows down, with Harry leaning against his chest. Eventually, Zayn manages to say, “I didn’t know we were still doing this.”

Harry laughs hollowly. “I figured I’d bring it back for nostalgia purposes.”

Zayn doesn’t reply, and eventually Harry continues, “It’s just -- what if this is terrible? What if I ruin it? I can’t fuck this up for everyone else.”

Zayn kisses his hair, which is a dumb fucking idea, but he absolutely can’t not. “You’re an idiot. It’s going to be great, okay?”

“I probably didn’t even cast the right people,” Harry says, tangling his fingers with Zayn’s. “I mean, you told me I shouldn’t have cast Louis as Tony -- ”

“I told you that because Louis is Louis and crazy sometimes, and you know that Louis is Louis, and you thought that it was worth it and I agree. And everyone else is a pretty chill person.”

“People have to respect my authority. How am I going to make that happen? I don’t even respect my authority.”

“You’re going to be an awesome director, and I’m gonna yell at any assholes who don’t listen to you.”

Harry turns toward him, biting his lip. “You promise?”

Zayn sighs, not really capable of looking Harry in the eyes at that moment. “Yeah, Haz, I promise.”

They don’t talk for a little while, Harry staring at Zayn in a way that makes him kind of uncomfortable, and eventually Harry nods, like something he hoped for was confirmed. He gets up, pulling Zayn up with one stupidly large hand, and washes his face in the sink. Zayn watches him, the way the water makes his curls stick to his forehead and the droplets running down his cheek, the long line of his neck when he gargles. Zayn had two tests and a paper due today, and he just held Harry’s hair back while he puked -- he doesn’t really have the energy to force himself to look away.

There are no paper towels in the dispenser, of course, and Zayn’s looking for something else Harry could use when Harry grabs Zayn’s t-shirt and pulls it up, bending down to wipe his face on it. Zayn shoves him away and Harry laughs, loud and bright and echoing, and Zayn can’t really breathe for a second.

“Dick,” he says, “it’s fucking December, I’m gonna freeze going home.”

Harry looks down. “Oh -- I mean, I figured you were -- you could come over, if you wanted. You don’t have to, it was just an option, I guess. I shouldn’t have -- “

“Fuck, Hazza, of course,” Zayn manages, grabbing Harry’s wrist to pull him closer. “Obviously I’m sleeping over, it was just a joke, I promise.”

“Thanks,” Harry murmurs once he’s tucked himself into Zayn’s chest, body limp. “For everything.”

“Anytime, babe,” Zayn says, guiding them out of the bathroom, not bothering to mention that Harry doesn’t have his bag, because it’s just not worth it tonight.

They walk to the corner, Harry sitting on a fire hydrant as Zayn attempts to hail a cab, and it seems like it takes forever but finally one stops and Zayn opens the door, letting Harry crawl in first.

Once Zayn gets in and gives the driver Harry’s address, Harry shifts to curl up in his lap. “Sorry, if I stay sitting up with my eyes open I’m probably gonna puke again,” he whispers, biting his lip. “I feel like we should avoid that.”

“Do you want to take the subway or something?” Zayn asks.

Harry shrugs. “It’s just left-over my-body-is-fucked up stuff,” he says, nuzzling into Zayn’s hip.

“Tell me if you need to pull over, I never want to deal with puking in a cab again.”

Harry smiles at him, and turns his head to Zayn’s stomach. His breath evens out, and Zayn feels him relax for the first time all night. Zayn was really happy when he thought Harry was done with this. The cab stops out Harry’s house and they tumble outside, Zayn paying the fare and waving off Harry’s look of guilt. Harry says “My parents are out of town” as he digs out his keys, and Zayn nods.

Harry pulls off his shirt when they walk in, tossing it on the floor as he walks towards his room. Zayn can see Harry’s back as he shimmies out of his jeans through the open door, and forces himself to turn around and walk into the kitchen. He grabs one of the shitty bottles of wine that permanently lives deep in Harry’s closet and a bag of cheetos, and walks in to find Harry cross-legged on the bed in low slung sweatpants, Netflix Instanting The Matrix. Zayn offers him the first sip, and Zayn can see the muscles on his bare chest move as he reaches out to take it. He forces himself to look up, but Harry’s fond smile is not actually that much better. Zayn grabs Harry’s old Urinetown shirt from his dresser, changing into it.

“I still don’t know why they made the t-shirt brown,” Harry says, shifting so he’s lying on his stomach with his laptop in front of him. Zayn flops down next to him. “Or why you always wear it. It has to be the least flattering thing ever, it literally looks like shit.”

Zayn pokes him. “Throw it out then.”

“I mean, if you really want to look like a moron every time you show up at my house, it’s not my place to stop you,” Harry says, pulling the blanket over both of them. Zayn curls an arm around his waist, tugging him closer, and Harry slides a warm hand up the back of Zayn’s shirt.

They don’t talk much during the movie, and by the last scene Harry is lying on his back, eyes half closed, his legs tangled with Zayn’s. Zayn is still watching, if only to stop himself from watching Harry. They stay like that through the credits, Zayn staring blankly at the screen, and when Harry finally registers the movie’s over he reaches up, closes his laptop, and puts it on the floor. Zayn kicks off his jeans and pulls off his shirt when Harry tugs at it, letting Harry curl into his chest.

“Sorry I suck right now,” Harry says into Zayn’s sternum, shaky. “I promise I’m done puking for a while?”

“Lemme know if you’re not,” Zayn mutters, wrapping himself around Harry because what else is he going to do.

Harry laughs. “Night,” he says, licking one of Zayn’s ribs and smirking up at him.

Zayn kicks him gently. “Night.”

*

When Zayn wakes up, Harry’s clock is telling him it’s three in the fucking morning, and Harry is sitting up in bed with his phone, the wine bottle empty next to him, playing some game and listening to what sounds like Cabaret, which Zayn can hear because Harry’s headphones suck. He reaches up sleepily and pulls the cord out of the headphone jack, grabbing Harry’s phone out of his hands.

“Go to sleep,” Zayn says, ignoring Harry’s attempts to get his phone back. “Also, get better headphones, I don’t want to be woken up by Nazi songs.” Harry sighs and slides down next to him. Zayn turns on his side, facing Harry, his hand on Harry’s stomach, and lets his eyes drift shut. Harry’s tense under him. “You okay?” Zayn asks, tired but a little guilty.

“Can’t sleep,” Harry says, taking a shaky breath, and Zayn looks at him. Harry just shrugs. “It’s -- whatever.”

“Fuck, sorry,” Zayn whispers. “You -- you could’ve woken me up if you wanted to talk?” He traces Harry’s ribs lazily with one hand, the other tucking Harry’s hair back behind his ears. Harry swallows and squeezes his eyes shut, and shit, that’s -- Zayn knows that. Harry gets tired and stressed and kind of tipsy and somehow when he’s with Zayn all his inhibitions disappear; he’s not a particularly shielded person in the first place but he’ll cry in front of Zayn and tell him things and just. Sometimes Zayn realizes that Harry needs him and he knows it’s idiotic but he just wants to give Harry everything, always. He presses his forehead against Harry’s shoulder, not looking at him, giving him the chance to cry if he doesn’t want Zayn to see. They lie there like that for a few minutes, Harry’s breaths uneven.

“What if I never sleep again,” Harry says, almost inaudible, clearly not trusting his voice. His breath smells like wine and Zayn knows he’s about two seconds from breaking down. He looks up at Harry and shushes him, one finger over his lips, and Harry just starts to cry, and Zayn can’t fucking breathe.

He pulls Harry on top of him, one hand rubbing his back. “You had a shitty day and you puked, it wasn’t exactly your average Friday,” he says. “You’ll be fine, okay?”

Harry just shakes his head. “I don’t call you every time I can’t sleep,” he says, taking a huge breath and looking up at him. “I -- it’s been happening a lot. I just want to fucking sleep, Zayn.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches Harry. He's still half asleep and completely unable to deal with this. Sometimes he feels like life with Harry is just cruel. Harry needs him so fucking much right now, he’s a complete mess and he wouldn’t be this way with anyone else, and Zayn can’t really do anything about it because he’s seventeen and stupid in love with him and honestly sometimes just really, really glad that he’s the one Harry wants on a shitty night. He bites his lip, hating himself a little because this is so not about him, and runs a hand through Harry’s hair as Harry curls even further into his chest. Zayn just feels so helpless, not sure what to do or say, not when he’s this tired and Harry is this fucked up.

“Everyone’s going to hate me,” Harry says eventually, his words muffled by tears and Zayn’s skin. “Everyone’s gonna think I’m just a whore who slept with the director last year and ended up in charge of this and cast my friends and is completely incompetent. I don’t know how to do this, okay?”

Zayn stares at him. “Harry, I -- who even knows about you and Samantha?”

“Everyone,” Harry says, gulping. “Literally everyone in the whole fucking world because everyone knows everything about me.”

“I honestly forgot about that, so I’m pretty sure no one’s gonna think that,” Zayn tells him.

“Stop fucking lying to me,” Harry says, his voice cracking. He rolls off Zayn, burying his face in the pillow, and shrugs off the hand Zayn places on his back.

“Hey, Harry, breathe,” Zayn whispers. Harry doesn’t give any indication of having heard Zayn, but Zayn doesn’t push it, just watches him. Eventually Harry sighs and turns back towards him. “Do you want water or anything?” he asks. Harry just shakes his head, and Zayn reaches out slowly to pull him in again, giving Harry more than enough time to stop him. Harry’s tense for a moment, then laces his fingers with Zayn’s, wiping his eyes with that hand.

“Sorry,” Harry says, and Zayn fucking hates when he apologizes. He always just wants to tell Harry it’s fine, he hasn’t done anything wrong, can’t possibly do anything wrong when it comes to him and Zayn, and that he really isn’t the fuck-up he seems to think he is, but he -- has no fucking idea how to say that without it coming out really, really badly.

“Shut up, Haz,” Zayn tells him, knowing his voice isn’t really reliable right now and just hoping Harry’s too upset to notice. “Shut the fuck up, okay?” Harry shrugs, clearly trying to catch his breath. Zayn trails a finger down his chest, feeling his way-too-fast heartbeat. He just wants Harry to stop fucking sobbing already so they can both go to sleep. He just wants Harry to be okay because it fucking scares him to be responsible for this, for the shit Harry won’t show anyone else.

Harry wipes his eyes on the pillowcase. “This is a really big deal and I just can’t let myself fuck up,” he says finally, his voice rough, avoiding Zayn’s eyes.

“You’re not gonna,” Zayn promises, quiet. “You’re -- you’re a fucking awesome director and people like you, even when they gossip about you, and anyone who says shit is an asshole and probably jealous, and you have all those loyal ninth grade girls and Louis and Liam and Niall if he ever bothers to come to school, y’know? And you have me, I’ll -- I swear I’ll yell at anyone who fucks with this production, it’s my job, and I don’t think you’re ever going to need it but just let me know if I need to kill some actors.” Harry smiles a little through his tears, and it fucking breaks Zayn’s heart. “Come on, Haz, you deserve this more than anyone, this is a classic and we’ll do it right and it’ll be ours and I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else and I love you and it’s -- gonna be great, okay?” He doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s saying but Harry isn’t hysterical anymore, still teary but breathing somewhat normally, and that’s -- really the only thing Zayn cares about right now.

“I still don’t believe you,” Harry whispers into Zayn’s collarbone, his face damp.

Zayn shrugs. “You should.”

Harry’s silent for a few minutes. “Thanks,” he says eventually. “Fuck, Zayn, no one else -- you’re the -- ”

“Just go to sleep,” Zayn says, kissing his temple, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence.

Harry gets quiet, and Zayn’s eyes drift close. He’s trying to stay awake and take care of Harry, but Harry’s warm on top of him and his eyelids are heavy and Zayn can feel himself falling asleep.

*

Zayn wakes up from a dream he can’t remember clearly, only vague ideas of loneliness, and -- god fucking dammit. Harry’s curled up on the bottom of the bed, as far away from Zayn as possible, shoulders shaking as he sobs silently, and it’s four in the fucking morning and Zayn would quite possibly kill someone in order to be able to go to sleep.

Instead, he sits up and slides his arm around Harry’s shoulder, murmuring “Fuck, Hazza, what’s wrong?” into the curve of his neck.

Harry takes a deep, shuddering breath, and says, “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

“It’s four in the morning and you’re crying. You’re not fine in literally any sense of the word.”

Zayn probably deserves the elbow he gets from that, and they don’t talk for a moment. Harry’s beautiful, even like this, the moonlight from the window illuminating half of his face and reflecting off the tears still running down his cheek.

Eventually, Zayn asks, “Is there anything -- honestly anything -- that would make you feel better right now?”

“Fucking,” Harry says bitchily.

Zayn has to take a second to remind himself that Harry doesn’t know, Harry’s just lashing out. Once he’s calmed himself down, he shrugs, faux-casual, and says, “Okay.”

Harry turns to stare at him, and at least he’s not crying. “Seriously?”

“I mean, I’m not gonna -- fuck you, but at this point, if you want to make out or something, I’m fine with it,” Zayn says, and this is -- probably one of the dumbest things he’s ever done but fuck it he’s giving up on self-preservation. It hasn’t been helping so far anyway.

“I don’t want your fucking pity makeouts,” Harry says defensively. “I’m not actually that much of a desperate slut.”

Zayn really did not know that tonight would involve him having to fucking convince Harry that Zayn wanted to kiss him and not just out of pity. He’s pretty tired of being involved in what must be God’s practical joke.

“Haz, you’re not a slut and I don’t fucking pity you. It’s been a really shitty night, okay? I just -- ”

Shrugging and staring determinedly at the wall, Harry says, “Fine, if you want.”

Zayn has never wanted anything more than this, but it’s fucking killing him that this is how he’s getting it. He leans over, his hand on Harry’s jaw, tilting him towards Zayn. Neither of them is really breathing, and Zayn knows it’s just his stupid seventeen year old heart talking, but he can’t imagine ever loving anyone more.

He starts out just gently pressing his lips against Harry’s, feeling the tracks of tears, and both of their eyes are open. They last a moment like that, just looking at each other, before something inside Harry snaps, and he shoves Zayn back on the bed, crawling on top of him and rubbing his body against him. It’s still slow, but it’s desperate in a more -- sexual way now, Harry touching Zayn like he wants to crawl inside him but also fuck him, and Zayn really shouldn’t let this happen. He moves his hands to Harry’s back, holding him still, and Harry whines and sucks on his lower lip, which is just blatantly unfair. “Harry,” Zayn says, pulling away to kiss his jaw, really glad he’s too sleepy to want this to go as far as he normally would. He’s not really sure what to say after that, not sure what won’t make Harry even more upset (because god if he says he doesn’t want to have sex with him Harry will freak out and also he’d -- just be lying), so he turns onto his side and tugs Harry close against him, kissing him lazily. Harry squirms against him a little and Zayn just wraps himself around him, keeping this as vaguely platonic as possible. Harry relaxes eventually, tangling his legs with Zayn’s, still shaky and teary but -- a little more calm, and god Zayn would love to go to sleep but he also just doesn’t want to stop kissing Harry ever.

Zayn has one hand on Harry’s lower back, pulling him as close as possible, and Harry has a thigh wedged between his leg and Zayn -- would definitely be lying if he said he hadn’t had a lot of fantasies that involved this. There’s barely a rhythm at this point, just pressing lips together, and it would get repetitive or boring except it’s Harry, and Harry’s making little noises sometimes that kind of sound like Zayn’s name. Zayn nuzzles Harry’s neck, sucking gently with just the tiniest hint of teeth, and Harry gasps and rolls onto his back, tugging at Zayn until he’s on top of him, smiling up at him with so much trust and love Zayn wants to kill himself. He’s taking advantage of Harry and it’s fucked up and he’s not going to be able to forgive himself, but if he stopped now, he’d fuck Harry up worse, and this is the only time Harry’s looked happy all night. Zayn’s propping himself up on his elbows, trying desperately to keep a little bit of distance from his body to Harry’s because fuck the longer he kisses Harry the less self-control he has, but Harry fucking spreads his legs and wraps one leg around Zayn’s thighs, pulling him down flush against him, and Zayn can’t muffle his groan.

Harry smirks at him, grinding up against Zayn’s dick, and Zayn is completely screwed -- there’s nothing Harry likes more than proof he’s wanted. There’s only two layers of fabric between them, and Zayn can feel that Harry’s hard (which isn’t a surprise, he’s a teenage boy and at least a little bi, but it’s still -- pretty something) and all he fucking wants to do is slide down the bed and suck Harry’s dick. He’s sure Harry wouldn’t object, it’s a fucking blowjob, but Zayn knows he’d feel pretty fucking shitty in the morning. Not like he won’t anyway, but getting to third would make this real in a way Zayn’s trying pretty hard to prevent. He lets himself settle into the cradle of Harry’s hips anyway, tracing his fingers up Harry’s side, laughing when Harry squirms, ticklish.

Harry’s hand slides down Zayn’s back, closer and closer to the line of his boxers. Zayn’s not really breathing steadily anymore -- or at all -- but when Harry’s hand slips under his waistband, his giant fingers fanning out over Zayn’s ass, Zayn knows that if he doesn’t stop that now he’s going to end up having sex with Harry. Zayn’s traitorous dick points out that really, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but Zayn forces himself to think about Harry puking and crying all night, talking about being a slut, and -- fuck, Zayn’s not going to fuck up a thirteen year friendship for one night. He reaches around his body and pulls Harry’s hand off, and as soon as he wraps his hand around Harry’s wrist Harry stops resisting. When he presses Harry’s wrist against the bed, above his head, Harry goes completely pliant under Zayn, all the tension immediately seeping out of his body. Harry bites his lips, nervous and needy, and presses his other wrist to Zayn’s hand.

“Please?” Harry asks, not looking at Zayn. Zayn has never fucking learned how to say no to Harry, and he’s certainly not going to start with this; Harry’s flushed and fucked out beneath him, and he’s asking Zayn to hold him down. Jesus Christ.

Zayn takes Harry’s wrist and crosses it over the one already there, grasping them both in one hand, and Harry closes his eyes, looking completely blissed out. Zayn kisses him with his eyes open, soft and sweet and -- not really sexual at all, and fuck, Harry hasn’t looked this happy since August, probably, or even earlier. Zayn brings his other hand up to play with Harry’s hair, letting his body go heavy on top of Harry’s. Harry tilts his head, nuzzling into Zayn’s wrist as Zayn runs his fingers through his curls, and Zayn kisses Harry’s neck, because otherwise he’s going to say things he really cannot say.

They stay like that for ages, Zayn kissing Harry slowly as he hold him down, every touch soothing and deliberate. He can feel Harry’s dick pressing into him, even harder than before, but Harry’s not making any effort to get off; he’s lying there, completely pliant, letting Zayn do whatever he wants to him. Zayn’s never been more turned on in his life.

Eventually, Zayn moves Harry’s wrists and can see Harry wince, and he lets go, kissing Harry gently when he makes a noise of concern. He slides around Harry, arranging him so he’s sitting in the V between Zayn’s legs, leaning back on him, and starts massaging him. Harry smiles at him, his eyelids drooping and lips so, so swollen and red, murmuring something that is maybe supposed to be “Thanks” but comes out more like “Mmmm.” He can feel the soreness from Harry having his arms in an awkward position for so long, and Harry’s wrists crack when he rotates them, but there’s no underlying tension, no hard knots of stress. When he’s completely worked out every kink, he kisses Harry’s forehead and whispers, “Can you sleep now?”

Harry turns to him with a completely dopey grin on his face, almost like the one he has when he’s high but better, more genuine, and says, “Yeah. Thanks, Zayner.”

Zayn’s not really sure how they’re going to sleep, but Harry decides for him, pushing Zayn down onto the bed and curling up on his chest, pulling Zayn’s arms tight around him. He kisses Zayn once, a good-night, see-you-in-the-morning, I-trust-you kiss, and Zayn doesn’t know if he’s projecting or what Harry’s doing but his heart breaks, because fuck, he’d give anything to get that kiss every night, to be the one that Harry wanted always, and not just when he was too fucked up for anyone else.

“Love you,” Harry mumbles sleepily, his mouth pressed against Zayn’s collarbone and the words barely audible.

“Yeah, Hazza,” Zayn says. “Love you too.”

*

In the morning, Zayn wakes up to the glare of sunlight through Harry’s window -- he’s slept over here countless times, and he’s never gotten the hang of remembering to close the blinds. Harry’s leaning against the pillows, looking at him, and for a second Zayn is terrified that he hadn’t slept again, and Zayn had missed it, but no. Harry looks happy and well-rested, the bags under his eyes finally diminished, and he clearly hasn’t been up for that long.

Zayn stretches, rubbing his eyes to wake himself up, and hopes that Harry will decide that they really don’t need to talk about anything that happened last night, preferably ever, but definitely not while sober. “Hey,” he manages, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m really sorry,” Harry bursts out, like he’s been planning how to say this since he woke up and is forcing it out of himself. Zayn opens his mouth to protest, and Harry cuts him off. “No, stop, lemme say this. I know you’re gonna say it’s fine but it’s really not. I’ve been really stressed out about directing and college applications and everything and I need to learn how to handle it like an adult instead of puking and crying all over you. And you’re the only one I do this to, so it’s really not fair. You shouldn’t have to deal with me like this.”

“Can I say something?” asks Zayn, careful. Harry swallows and nods. “Haz, you need to learn how to handle shit in healthier ways, you’re right, but it’s not -- I don’t want you to so I can stop taking care of you. I want you to because I hate seeing you fuck yourself up.”

Harry laughs, self-deprecating, and says, “Yeah, it’s no picnic for me either.”

“Also,” Zayn starts, then swallows. This is dangerous territory; this is a fucking minefield. These are the facts left unspoken after thirteen years of friendship, the ones that they knew were secrets even before they knew what secrets were, really, but they instinctively avoided them like they avoided dark closets full of monsters and mean girls and bullies. In the map of their friendship, this is an entire continent labelled “Here Be Dragons.” But Zayn presses on, because he has to. “I should have to deal with this. I want to deal with this, Hazza, because you’re my best fucking friend and this is a part of you. You are -- I’d rather have you at your shittiest than anyone else at their best, and I’d always rather you choose me for this than someone else.”

There’s a long silence. It’s fucking typical, Zayn figures, that he’d fuck up their friendship not with kinky makeouts, but just by being unable to keep from telling Harry how much he loved him. He should have given him that blowjob after all.

“Oh,” Harry manages finally, sounding a little shell-shocked.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, really fucking embarrassed. He’s studiously not looking at Harry, so the tackle catches him completely by surprise, Zayn flailing his arms.

Harry’s pressing Zayn back onto the pillows, nuzzling him with an obnoxiously large grin. “Thanks,” he says, sitting back onto Zayn’s lap to look at him. “Seriously. You’re the best best friend. There’s literally no one who’s even close. I have no fucking idea what I’d do without you, don’t make me find out.”

Zayn has barely started breathing again, but he manages to smile back at Harry. “Yeah,” he says, and he’s a fucking idiot but he really hopes Harry never finds anyone else to do this.


End file.
